


knife // time bomb

by xyfanficarchive



Category: Black Mirror, Black Mirror: Bandersnatch
Genre: (no pronouns), Angst, Death, F/M, Fluff, Gender-neutral Reader, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, author wont let stefan catch a damn break, s u f f e r i n g
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 16:50:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17328806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xyfanficarchive/pseuds/xyfanficarchive
Summary: Reader catches their boyfriend in the street, and wants to spend time with him due to his absence while working on Bandersnatch. But it seems they’ve decided to come over on the worst day, and Stefan loses control in the worst way.





	knife // time bomb

Your voice rang through the noise of the bustling afternoon street, clear, a knife sharp enough to cut past the din crowding his senses as well as the fog of focus clouding his brain – even when he wasn’t at his computer, he was perpetually thinking, thinking, plotting Bandersnatch. Especially as the due date crawled near.

But he took a deep breath, letting whatever thought he was manipulating in his mind slip away from him. He had an obligation to you. And in any case, in his absence from your life he missed you so, so much, though he tried his best not to let those feelings distract him when he was working.

“Stefan! Stefaaaan!” You called out. He stopped walking and turned around to face you, and saw you waving one arm above the bobbing, rushing heads to get his attention. The street was golden, the autumn sun already hanging low in the sky, but he could’ve sworn it was _you_ illuminating the shop windows, casting your glow to glint off the parked cars and strangers’ faces. There was hardly a day anymore where he wasn’t in a constant state of anxiety but –

_\- God,_ you helped. He raised his hand to signal his acknowledgment of your presence and felt a smile creep over his face for the first time in… _far_ too long. And as you approached, and he could see the way your eyes shined as you looked at him, the beautiful way your mouth turned up in a smile, the flash of your teeth, he could feel some of that nervousness melting away. You opened your arms – waiting for him to come to you – and he walked into your embrace, holding you tight for a moment before you drew away from each other. He interlaced his slightly chilled fingers with yours before continuing on in the direction he was headed.

“How are you doing, Stef? I’ve missed you,” you said, smiling up at him, and drew just that bit closer to his body so that your arms were touching.

“I’m…” Stefan paused. He could lie… he didn’t want to worry you. But he couldn’t breach that trust, didn’t want to – he could trust you. His eyes turned to the sidewalk, his shoulders tensing and eyebrows knitting together. “I’m really stressed out. The game is – it’s coming along, but not nearly fast enough. I just can’t get it to run with all the pathways it needs, and the deadline is approaching so fast.”

“Love, maybe what you need is a _break_ ,” you said, and when his gaze returned to you, you were looking at him, one eyebrow raised and mouth in a smirk – but oh, how you always looked so _gentle_ , even when chiding him. He wanted to give in to you so terribly, but – 

“I… I really can’t. I can’t afford it, Y/N. I’m sorry.” The corner of his mouth drew out to the side for a moment, and his gaze fell. Stefan heard you huff and, quickly, before you could go on he changed the subject: “S-so, where were you headed, before?”

“Oh, I was just on my way home,” you said, and it hurt to hear how your voice had fallen, even just a bit. “But-’’ He glanced back up at you when your voice perked up again, your eyes alight as your hand slipped out of his and you brought it up to rest at his elbow. “- I-I was just wondering… I’ve been missing you so terribly, Stef… I’m free the whole rest of the day, so I thought maybe I could come over for a bit? If your dad’s alright with it, of course…What’d you reckon?” You grinned up at him, so hopeful. He felt warm inside. He hesitated for a moment, lips parted but – 

Oh, he couldn’t deny you. Not like that.

He licked his lips, the corners of his mouth quirking up. “My dad’s actually out of town the whole weekend. Visiting family. So he won’t be at home. I…” he sighed. A twinge at the back of his mind. “I’d love for you to come over.”

Your smile spread wider across your face. The corners of your eyes crinkling – you leaned your cheek into his arm as your shoulders jerked up, trying to contain a laugh in the street. “That’s great!” You pressed your lips together before breaking out into a smile again. “Where do we catch the bus from here?”

“Just follow me,” he said, smiling warmly.

Stefan loved you. He loved you so, so much.

\------------

Your presence always felt so natural within his home. Even beyond the awkwardness of existing as young lovers in the same space as one’s father, you really did fit so very well into his routine, into his life. Stefan didn’t really believe in the concept of ‘soulmates’ but he felt that if there were any place you were really _meant to be_ , it was by his side, and he by yours. He wondered if many people felt like that at nineteen, long beyond the first puppy love phase of secondary school relationships – so many people you both knew in school had long since abandoned their high school sweethearts once there was no longer any need to save face within the hell that was the education system. And yet you two remained tethered, bonded by your shared affections. 

Stefan took your coat and your bag as you stepped inside the door. He knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. Knew it deep in his being. But what was the next step? Moving in together? Marriage? Stefan was awful at navigating the ‘normal’ conventions of society, of being a couple in the eyes of the public and his peers. But so were you, really, no matter how good you were at faking it. The future was a terrifying unknown for both of you but, at the very least you would traverse it together.

You were always the only one who ever understood him. Underneath the surface, you struggled too, but where social mimicry was your survival tactic, social isolation was his. When he wasn’t being avoided, he was outright bullied, and the faster he could draw away before the other students got to the second part, the better. Still, there was only so long he could be the fucking crazy one before he came to a breaking point – and that, _that_ was when you reached out to him.

And you understood. _You understood_. He was alone no longer because underneath the shining veneer of your social skills and moderate-sized friend group, you were so much like him, and though you both hid in different ways you understood the pain of hiding.

You were only friends at first. You suffered for it; associating with him was a social faux-pas, but you gave him such a genuine connection. You shared in his interests with enthusiasm, you defended him when he was under attack, and when the threat of floating away was too great, you tethered each other to the earth, and that bond was worth a million lost school acquaintances. Eventually, you both came upon a point where you couldn’t deny anymore the warmth you felt towards each other, the racing hearts and constant daydreaming of holding each other, how some days you would come to his house and neither of you would really want to play computer games but you would anyways, just to have an excuse to huddle close to each other in front of the computer monitor – 

That was four years ago. And still here you were, in his house, taking off your coat and your shoes and making yourself comfortable like it was _yours_ , too. Stefan tended to lose the people he got close to, but he was glad you stayed.

He was watching as you, in your socked feet, retreated further into his house, only briefly looking over your shoulder to say “I’m going to go call my mum and dad, let them know where I am.”

“Yeah – yeah, that’s a good idea,” he nodded, and followed you to sit on the steps and wait for you as you picked up the receiver and dialed your home number.

A momentary pause. And then your face brightened in preparation for conversation – 

“Hi, mum,” you said, and paused again.

“Yeah, I’m just calling to let you know I’m at Stefan’s house.”

“No, no, his dad’s out of town for the weekend – visiting family.” During the silent interval, your face fell, and your nose scrunched up briefly.

“Yes, of course I’ll be fine… why wouldn’t I be?”

He watched your eyebrows draw together, a frown pulling the corner of your lips down – 

“I keep telling you, you’ve got no reason to be worried for me. I’ll be completely alright, now – I’ve got to go. That’s all I wanted to say.” He could tell from your voice, you were annoyed.

“Yeah, I’ll see you later. Bye.” Receiver down. Stefan got up and went to stand in front of you as you sighed deeply and locked your hands behind your head, stretching your arms behind you before walking over to meet him and leaning your forehead into his chest.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, now concerned as he wrapped one arm around you tentatively reached a hand up to stroke your hair.

“They’re _worried_ for me,” you emphasized venomously. “They grow ever more skeptical of you – of us, as time goes on.” You drew away, and his hand slipped down to the small of your back as you looked up to meet his eyes. “Especially now that you’re isolating yourself more to work on your game, they’re worried you’re –’’ you looked to the side, one corner of your mouth pulling out as you deliberated for a split second, “ _– getting worse_ , and that you’re going to become a danger to, I guess, not only yourself, but me as well.” Your eyes returned to his just as quickly as he looked away, shoulders folding in on himself as a pang of hurt flashed through his chest. He didn’t know what to say, so he stayed silent. You brought your arms out from where they were pinned between your bodies and returned his embrace. Your body was so warm against his, so lovely and comforting.

You turned your head and leaned back into his chest, and he pulled you in closer, so your body was flush with his. “I think… I think, nineteen years and they’re _still_ in denial about the fact that… that I struggle too, with… _mental illness_ , you know?” Your voice was beginning to choke, and it hurt to hear, so Stefan drew in a sharp breath and shut his eyes tight, but you tilted your head back quick so that you could look up at him, and he opened his eyes again, so he could look down at you.

Your eyes, your voice, they were so _earnest_ : “We’re not inherently dangerous.” You drew your arms out from behind him to tuck some stray curls behind his ear and rest your palms on his cheeks. You stroked his face with your thumbs and Stefan licked his lips, blinking slow, not even daring to breathe, because he wanted this moment to last forever, stretch into infinity –

“And you’re not a time bomb,” you murmured, slow and soft and honest, and there was something choking up Stefan’s throat so that even if he could find the words, he was sure they would not come out, so instead he opted to lean into you; forehead to forehead, noses pressed together, a moment endless in its own right until he turned his head to kiss you slow, with every ounce of depth and passion and _love_ he could muster from inside of him.

When you pulled away you leaned your face into the crook of his neck, and he stooped down to do the same, and you stood there just holding each other, breathing deep, washed over in the profound adoration you felt for each other.

“I said to them, if you _are_ getting worse, in any case, this is the time you’re gonna need me the most. I know you would be there for _me_ , so –’’ you sighed into his skin, “– I can trust you. I know you would never harm me. And I’ll never abandon you, Stef.”

He shut his eyes tight, as he tilted his face to press a fervent kiss to your temple. “I love you,” he murmured, low and soft, feeling so very warm and content and full in your arms. “I love you so much, Y/N.”

“I love you, too.”

After a brief moment, you pulled away, and smiled half-heartedly as you looked up at him. “Well, I think – I’m hungry, so maybe we should eat soon. Have you eaten today, love?” You asked, and Stefan had to think for a moment before slowly, sheepishly shaking his head. You quirked an eyebrow at him. “Well, I don’t particularly feel like cooking, do you?”

“I’m no good at it,” Stefan admitted with another shake of his head, and you smiled at him.

“Me either. Perhaps we’ll just order a pizza then? On me,” you offered.

“That sounds great,” he nodded, smiling.

“And then after, perhaps you can show me your progress on the game?” You asked.

“That… that sounds great, love,” he said, and paused for a split second before he scoffed. “If the damn thing runs.”

“Oh, don’t be so pessimistic,” you said.

“If you’d been working on it, you’d know.”

You huffed in front of him, quirking an eyebrow as your lips drew into a straight line. “…In any case, I’ll go get the phone.”

\------------

He was laying down in bed when he heard you coming up the stairs, before you opened the door to his bedroom; pizza box in hand (the warm smell of grease filling the air), bag in hand and… jacket on?

“I almost forgot,” you said excitedly, smiling as you bumped the door closed with your hip. “I got a new pin,” you elaborated, and Stefan sat up and crossed his legs in bed so you could put the pizza down, and your bag next to it. You unzipped the front pocket and pulled out a small card with a small object, shining in the low light, and handed it to him before stepping back and standing with your arms outstretched, presenting yourself to him. “I always let you put them on.”

Stefan looked down at the card in his hands. In the centre, a glossy enamel pin, about two inches long in the image of an extended switchblade. He removed the backing from the pin and set the card down on the bed, before getting up and standing in front of you. He looked you up and down, considering all the gleaming buttons and pins before – 

He took a step forward and took your right-hand collar in his hand, feeling the denim before he poked the pin through the fabric and fixed it there with the backing.

“There,” he said. “I think it looks good there.” You looked down and considered it in front of him before you looked back up and met his gaze.

“So do I,” you beamed, and shrugged the jacket off and onto the floor. “So,” you began, walking to the bed and opening the box where you grabbed a slice, holding it high above your head to lower the elongated strings of cheese still attached into your mouth. You bit them off, struggling just a little (at which Stefan smiled), and gestured to the computer on his desk. “Why don’t you show me your work?”

He stood for a moment and then nodded, walking over to his desk. “I just managed to get it stable this morning. But it’s still not complete – God, there’s so much left to do,” he explained, wringing his hands up near his collarbones, but you interrupted him.

“Well, I just wanna see what you’ve got right now. I’m sure what you have is good.” You smiled at him, taking another bite out of your slice. Sure, he trusted your judgment but – in his gut he wasn’t so certain. He sat down on his chair and you stood next to him, resting your arm on his shoulder and stooping down so you were looking at the screen at his eye level. Stefan booted up the computer, typed in a few commands, and sighed as he let his index finger hover over the ‘run’ button on the keyboard. “Here it goes,” he sighed, and hit it.

The screen blanked out for a moment, before the first line of the Bandersnatch starting screen flashed to life and began to scroll down the monitor, slowly revealing the image, a replica of the book cover, until – Stefan cringed internally on instinct, waiting – 

Halfway through, the screen flashed and glitched, garbled characters and colours filling the monitor, and Stefan felt hot, hot in his blood, his eyes narrowing as he chewed his bottom lip, clenched fists raising up, up until they were right beside his fervid ears –

“Ffffff- ”

“Oh, Stef- ”

“ _FUCK!_ ” He brought his fists swiftly down onto the desk, and you flinched away as the keyboard clattered and the myriad papers rustled. He was quick to turn to you, apologizing but still frustrated.

“I’m- I’m sorry, Y/N, I’m sorry, I just – ” Stefan was trembling, he shook his hands to try and rid himself of some of energy accumulating inside his limbs, but when it didn’t work he opted to thread his fingers through his hair and hold on. “I had _just_ got it stable _this morning_ , I – what could have _possibly_ gone wrong since then?” He whined.

“Hey, hey,” you cooed, “I get it. It’s alright though, maybe you just need a break from thinking about it. We can just do whatever this evening. Tomorrow you can have at it again. Probably be good for you to rest your brain.”

He pushed himself away from the desk with his feet, chair groaning across the floor, and closed his eyes as he ran his hands down his face. When he opened them, his eye caught the cassette sitting on his desk – a tape with the words “JFD doc” scrawled in marker on the label, and he considered it for a moment. He let his hands fall into his lap before he leant back in the chair and pointed a finger at it. “I got that from Colin.”

“Ritman?” You asked.

“Y-yeah, Colin Ritman. He’s been missing but – apparently he said it would ‘inspire me’ or something,” he explained. “I could go downstairs, get the Betamax player, and we could watch that.”

“JFD…” you muttered, deliberating on it, “Jerome F. Davies. Are you sure, Stef? Could be interesting, but –”

“Yeah, why not?”

“I mean, alright. I don’t think we have anything else to do,” you shrugged, and took another bite.

When he had come back upstairs, you were sitting on the floor in front of his television, pizza box in front of you and you were working on your second slice. When he had hooked up the Betamax player and settled in next to you, he tried eating, but only made it halfway through one before giving up – he just wasn’t that hungry. You quickly lost interest in the documentary, opting instead to sit next to him and flip through a stray book you found in his room, but Stefan remained enthralled.

The documentary begun to explain the history of the man in question – Davies’ dubious mental state, the drug use, the grisly slaughter of his wife when he finally broke – you remained unaffected in your disinterest, but he grew more agitated inside, and fidgeted with his hands.

It was when the presenter began to detail the specifics of Davies’ beliefs that Stefan begun to feel the cold fear creep up on his limbs, the moisture leave from his mouth, a painful tightening around his stomach – he was shaking, surely, but you did not notice. He didn’t think to turn the video off, but instead he kept watching, and between the echoing of two voices, the presenter and Colin’s (a memory, distant somehow, dragged up from a drug-addled brain) –

The pills. The drugs. The psych sessions, the people sent to pretend to be his friends and family, and the _symbols_ , the _fucking symbols_ , which Davies believed to be some kind of sign he was being controlled, but _fucking Christ, they were e v e r y w h e r e_ –

Stefan’s head felt light, as he whipped his head around; plastered all across his goddamn walls were the symbols. Four lines, all connected, the branching pathways, they were _everywhere_ , and when did he get up onto his feet? Stefan was hyperventilating now. Was he spinning around, trying to process the horrific reality of it all, or was the room spinning around him? He was tense, hands trembling, and oh god he was going to pass out, when – 

“Stef! Stefan! Snap out of it!” Your hands were gripping his shoulders, and the room snapped back into stillness around him as he alternated between gaping and clenching his jaw. But he was still dizzy, and his head was pounding, and you were standing in front of him, eyes wide and glassy as you shook him gently. The TV was off behind you.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Stef, I’m sorry I let you watch that, I’m sorry–” Tears were in your eyes, and in your voice, and Stefan started choking too, tears rolling down his face as his hands darted up to hold onto you like you were his lifeline – you were his lifeline.

“Breathe, love, please breathe for me. Take deep breaths, Stefan, deep breaths,” you said, and he tried to follow your direction, but he was sobbing and gasping strangled breaths as you led him back to sit down on his bed.

“I’m- I’m _scared_ , Y/N, I’m scared, I’m so scared, Y/N,” he cried, shaking as he stared up at you, eyes wide and wild-looking. “P-pleaaase don’t leave me, don’t leave me Y/N, I’m scared, I’m-I’m –”

“It’s okay, Stefan, it’s alright. I won’t leave you – I’ll never leave you. I’ll-I’ll stay the night, if you need. I’ll stay.” Your hands reached up to cup his cheeks, and then up further to caress his dark curls as he nodded vigorously, still sobbing. “Just lay down alright? We’ll just lay down, and we’ll sleep now,” you said, gently guiding him to lay on his back down the length of the bed, and he held eye contact like it was the only thing binding him down to reality.

You stepped back, fingertips reluctant to leave his trembling form, and he watched as you unhooked the button of your jeans, watched the reveal of your bare legs as you pulled them down and stepped out of them, leaving the pants crumpled on the floor.

“Here, here, move,” you uttered, pushing him back as he rolled onto his side and shifted to the far end, opening his arms to invite you in for an embrace as you climbed into his narrow bed. And then he closed his arms around you, holding you tight, bodies flush and hot. He shut his eyes and buried his face in the crook of your neck, and felt you slide your arm underneath his neck to cradle his head, wrapping your hand around so you could card your fingers through the curls underneath your palm. 

He was still quivering, weeping into your shoulder as you pressed gentle kisses to his forehead, bringing your hand up to caress the side of his face, though he calmed enough to quell his erratic breathing.

“It’s alright, love,” you cooed. “No matter what your mind’s telling you, you’re safe now. You’re safe with me, Stef. This is real. This is the only thing that matters right now. You’re the only one who can make decisions for yourself.” 

The evidence, it seemed so insurmountable. So undeniable. Between the documentary and Colin’s words, and the symbols. Could he trust you? How could he be sure you weren’t an actor, trained and sent to carefully keep the illusion alive…?

A twinge at the back of his mind – Stefan focused on the feeling of your warmth against him, your hands ceaselessly stroking and caressing, your sweet voice reassuring him as you talked and talked and talked, a bid to distract him from the most hair-raising corners of his own psyche. He would trust you. He could trust you. You were his safety, his light. 

He drifted off before you did.

\------------

Stefan awoke with a start.

The bed, now without you, was empty. He was tangled up in the bedsheets alone and  cold. The world was dark, and blue – like wading through ink. He caught his breath and rubbed the sleep from his eyes and then unwrapped himself from the damp bedsheets – he must have been sweating in his sleep, he thought. Tentatively, one foot after another, he stood up from his bed and stretched to dispel the discomfort in his limbs he’d accrued during his time sleeping all twisted up and left his room to find you.

When he opened his bedroom door, he could smell the makings of breakfast: things savoury and good all mixed together, the sound of sizzling bacon on the stovetop carried through the air and all the way up to the top floor, and he followed it all the way back down.

When he entered the kitchen, the lights were off. He could see through the windows that it was night, and you were stood there, humming a tune in naught but your underwear, a t-shirt and one of his sweaters making breakfast by the light of the full moon.

“Good morning Stef!” You smiled at him when you saw him walk in. “Come sit down, love,” you said gently, beckoning him towards you. Through the thick cloud of Stefan’s confusion, he complied, feet padding across the tiled floor and mouth slightly agape as he approached a chair and laid his hand atop the back, intending to pull it out before he hesitated.

“I’ve made breakfast. I can’t promise it’s great but… at least it’s food. And it’s edible, I hope,” you said, turning away from the stove to face him with a full plate in your hands. You set it down in front of him with a lopsided smile. Could you really… not see what was wrong with this whole situation? Stefan stood, gaping for a moment before he spoke:

“It’s dark,” he mumbled at last, eyes scrunching up as he glanced between you and the food.

“It _is_ dark,” you agreed, completely neutral except for a slight tilt of the head, and the sudden change in demeanour startled him a little.

This whole thing felt wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong; on the surface it seemed mostly harmless (there was nothing, after all, particularly _wrong_ about making breakfast in the dark, though it was certainly _odd_ ) but he began to feel ill, nonetheless. His breathing quickened, and the room began to turn as his head grew lighter.

“I-I’m sorry, Y/N…” He closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them back up you were still standing there, expressionless. “I don’t feel well… I think I’m just going to go back to bed,” he said, backing away from the chair for a few steps before – 

“Oh, no wonder he’s ill.” Stefan whipped around with a sharp gasp, eyes wide and heart pounding to face the voice that sounded out unexpectedly from behind him. It was… _you_. “He must not be in control,” the _other_ you said, also neutral, also expressionless. Stefan felt a constricting around his chest and bile beginning to rise in his throat as he struggled to breathe, a panic starting to settle itself in deep and comfortable in his mind. He turned around to see the you that was standing across from him before, and jumped again; you were now standing in front of him with the same proximity as the other was behind him, and his pale, clammy form was frozen in between the two versions of you, stomach constricting painfully in fear – he would be sure to vomit if his stomach weren’t empty as it was.

“Is your life yours, Stefan?” You asked with a shocking calmness, and his mouth was sandpaper as his racing mind struggled for words. “By which I mean, are you certain you’re in control?” The room was beginning to spin around him, and he felt on the verge of passing out before your hands surged up to take his shoulders, gripping him stronger than you should ever have been able to, and he recoiled with a yelp. And your face was tensionless, so frighteningly relaxed for the sheer intensity with which you were holding him. Stefan was hyperventilating now, and his head pounded as a slight fuzzy feeling began to creep into his hearing, muting the sound of blood rushing in his ears but accentuating the ringing and _your voice_ was crystal clear, a knife sharp enough to cut right through the static caused by his terror both making his hearing more acute by tenfold and muffling it at the same time:

“I asked you a question, Stefan. Are you sure you’re in control?” You asked again; the room was now rotating for sure, dizzying and disorienting and you, at the centre, were still as the night, the axis upon which his terror spun, the obelisk unmoving at the centre of his horrifying universe. He struggled to find an answer, but he was beyond words. “ _Answer me, Stefan! Are you sure you’re in control_?” Your voice was more forceful now as you beseeched his response, and he closed his eyes as his face twisted up so pained, and he was crying, crying, hot tears slipping down his face, only wondering why, why were you doing this to him? “ **Stefan!! ARE. YOU. IN. CONTROL??** ”

A twinge at the back of his mind. No, no, no, no, no I’m not, he thought, over and over and over in his mind. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. But he couldn’t get the words out, for all he tried.

\------------

Stefan awoke with a start.

The bed, now without you, was empty. He was tangled up in the bedsheets alone and cold, despite the warm morning sun shining in through the windows, the curtains drawn open while he was sleeping. He caught his breath and rubbed the sleep from his eyes and then unwrapped himself from the damp bedsheets – he must have been sweating in his sleep, he thought. He got up from his bed and twisted around in spot, glancing all around at the papers pinned on his wall, somehow disoriented, and missing you but – your things were still on the floor; your jacket, your bag, your pants, you were still here. And then he looked to his computer.

Perhaps sleep did him some good. He walked over to the desk and sat down, before booting up the machine and – 

After some deliberation while looking over the code, he was certain he knew the solution to last night’s parameter error. He fixed what he could, and typed some commands into the terminal, certain now that it would work, despite his now-ingrained trepidation regarding hitting the run button. And then he held his breath.

The start screen begun loading, line by line, the digital Bandersnatch cover replica, images comprised of those damn symbols interlocking, tessellating upon each other, until again, not yet halfway done and it blanked out, a new arrangement of garbled symbols filling the monitor.

Stefan was irritable in the past few months. He was certainly prone to snapping when his game glitched, evidently even in the presence of his partner, but this – this was new. It was hot, blazing up his chest and his brain, something positively sanguinary, frustration to the infinite consuming his common sense as his arms shuddered with the tension in his body, trying desperately to control his temper but he just. fucking. wanted. to. see. it. burn. He wanted it destroyed. To see anything, _anything_ wrecked, ruined, annihilated – 

A twinge at the back of his mind. Without thinking, his hand reached out to grab hold of a half empty mug of cold tea from his desk, and _what in the fuck was he **doing??**_

Stefan didn’t fucking want this. No, no, in all his rage, he still wasn’t that fucking stupid as to destroy weeks and weeks of work, toil, struggle all for a temper tantrum, but he could not control the movement of his arm, sure and deliberate. Just as quick as the madness overcame him it dispelled, and sheer distress replaced it as he fought desperately against his own body to set the mug down. The force of his will overcame the sudden impulse, but Stefan was still shaken to his very core as he shuddered in the wake of _whatever the fuck_ that was.

There was no way. No way that was him. He struggled to collect his thoughts, but it felt as though the world was beginning to crack underneath him, the very foundations of everything he knew starting to disintegrate beneath his feet, a chasm of terror forming in which there was no end to fall upon.

He wanted to trust you. Trust what he knew. But there was no other explanation for the sudden impulses, the – the _feeling_ he had deep in his brain, indescribable but no less there whenever he made a decision. He was being controlled. He was being controlled. Stefan Butler was not in control.

But in amongst his frenzied, disorganized thoughts he knew there was one last confirmation he could make, so he pleaded. Looked up, and around him, and made a desperate appeal for a sign, some kind of a message – he didn’t quite know if he even _wanted_ to receive one, but –

Stefan blanched. His stomach, his throat constricting while the rest of his body went limp and cold. A despairing tingle overcoming his nerves, settling itself in on each nerve ending so he felt numb as he gaped. Pinprick pupils. Tunnel vision; the world whiting out around the monitor of his computer as it flashed, momentarily, glitching garbled characters, and an image appeared: the branching pathways. Four lines, all connected. Stefan sat for a moment, simply processing, before he lurched forwards and pushed his chair back, stumbling up and swaying on the spot as he turned towards the door. There were no words in his mind, no sapient thought, only instinct, and dread, and disbelief, and horror, as he threw himself out the bedroom door and tore down the stairs to the ground floor.

He finds you in the kitchen and feels sick to his stomach. The savoury smell of breakfast is crowding his senses. You were standing by the stove, making breakfast, identical to the dream – humming the same tune, in your underwear and the t-shirt and his sweater, but the sunlight was catching in your hair, and – 

You turned and smiled. “Good morning, Stef! Come and sit down, love.” You beckoned him forward and turned back around to the stove. “I’ve made breakfast. I can’t promise it’s great but… at least it’s food. And it’s edible, I hope,” you turned around, full plate in your hands, beaming at him, but your face fell when you saw him standing in the same place, stiff and pale and sweaty, shoulders heaving laboured breaths. A look of concern settled itself on your features. “Are… are you alright, Stefan? You look ill.”

He gaped like a fish out of water, opening and closing his mouth, but the pasty feeling on his tongue just wouldn’t dispel. He stood there in front of you, considering, trying to form any semblance of a coherent thought, before he spoke:

“You-you said the s-same thing. In my dream. This is identical to my dream.” Disbelief in his voice.

“Oh? That’s odd…” you said cautiously, putting the plate down on the counter.

The heat was coming back into his mind. He walked towards you, mouth pressed into a firm line. Sensing something was off, you backed away, keeping yourself at arm’s length away from him as he stopped. “So,” he spat, “what’s your part in all of this, then?” He said, pressured speech, suddenly indignant as he looked you up and down past narrowed eyes.

“I don’t… I don’t understand, Stef. What’s wrong?” you asked nervously.

“What’s wrong?” He threw his head back and his arms out, looking up into the ceiling, backing away a few paces before his body snapped back into form and he bristled, now pacing as he tried to find the words, but always keeping an eye on you. “What’s _wrong_ , is that _I’m not in control,_ and _you_ ,” he seethed, jabbing his finger in your direction, “were in my dream, and it was fucking identical as when I just walked in now, and last night you tried to convince me that I was in control but this morning? This morning I got a sign. I’m not! I’m not in control, Y/N! So what the _fuck_ is your role in all of this?”

“Stef, you’re scaring me. What do you mean you’re not in control?” You asked, eyes wide and alert, voice quivering just that little bit –

“ _I mean I’m being controlled!_ Someone is controlling me, someone is- is making decisions for me!” He was wavering on the spot, the room was too bright – too fucking bright, and he squinted his eyes. His surroundings were turning, turning, just like in the dream, and he was hot and queasy as the reality of speaking that sentence aloud sunk in.

“Stef- Stef, th- that can’t be true. It’s impossible, I don’t- I couldn’t have anything to do with that. Oh god, love, please listen-” Your hands were out in front of you cautiously as you begun to approach slowly, but to Stefan’s ears your voice drowned out for the pounding in his head, blood rushing in his ears, just like the dream, just like the dream and something inside of him snaps and he wants to hurt you now, and the room is white around you – he’s absolutely blindsided by this… rage, this _irrationality_ , and he wants to fucking hurt you – 

There’s a knife on the counter, short but no less deadly, and he could just as easily pick it up as he could push you down, and the rage in him drains out for a dread, a panic so intense as he feels that _twinge_ in the back of his mind and his hand is reaching for the handle of the knife, now, he’s holding it – _wielding_ it and –

Stefan still doesn’t know what part you play in this. He still doesn’t know _if_ you’re involved, but he knows that he loves you. He loves you so very, very deeply; his light, his safety, his love with whom he wants to spend the rest of his days. That bond, that connection is hard to break. He thought he wanted to hurt you but there’s no way, no way he could _ever_ want such a thing.

What a nightmare.

Under his breath, he was softly begging to himself (to _whoever_ …?) as your face fell, flat now, aside from your eyes wide in fear, and you started to back away again as he advanced on you.

“Please, don’t make me do this. Y/N, please, no, no no, please get away, please get away, I’m sorry, I don’t want this, I don’t want to hurt you, please run, please…” His breathing was picking up now in his panic, and he was fighting, fighting so hard against this – 

“ _Stefan_ , _please._ You’re really fucking scaring me now. Just put the knife down,” your voice was quiet, quivering in your fear-stricken state.

“ ** _I CAN’T!!!_** ” His voice was cracking with the intensity of his emotions, and his eyes blurred as they welled up with tears that fell down his freckled cheeks. “ ** _I can’t, I’m not in control, I can’t control it Y/N, please just go, just run!! Get away!!_** ”

He could. For all he was struggling to put the knife down, he _knew_ he could do it, but he was somehow fucking immobilized, frozen, locked in, unable to just _make that fucking decision for himself._

A twinge in the back of his mind.

His sudden conviction is quick, quicker than your ability to process that your love, your beloved boyfriend was lunging at you with a knife, lightning fast with the adrenaline of the situation. You didn’t even have time to move before you were stuck with the blade in the right side of your neck.

Stefan’s world moves in a blur. The knife clatters to the floor somewhere behind him, he thinks? In any case, it’s no longer in his hand, and you’ve collapsed onto the floor, and there’s a metallic smell in the air – everything’s red, so red.

It’s a fucking horror show. With the pressure the carotid artery is under from the pumping of your heart – Jesus fucking Christ. Stefan drops to his knees and collapses on his side, turning over to empty the contents of his stomach before in a frenzy, in a panic, he thinks that _he needs to get to you, he needs to hold you, he needs to fix this, he has to fix this_ – 

You’re choking, gurgling softly as you struggle for breath, and he’s shaking violently as he takes your head in his lap, he’s trying to hold your wound closed but only getting covered in your blood, and you’re looking up at him with such pure, unadulterated fear –

Even bleeding out in his arms, you’re struggling to get away from him. Stefan is sobbing, screaming, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, and his heart wrenches because he loves you, loves you so much, and he stabbed you in the neck, and he’s covered, _drenched_ in your blood, and you’re dying.

He holds you as you weaken, and finally as you still. And he remains there, because it doesn’t quite occur to him to do anything else. The deed is already done.

At some point the phone rings, it’s Stefan’s dad calling to say he will be remaining out of town another night – but Stefan doesn’t pick up, or even notice, really.

Mr. Butler comes home to a horrid smell, and to his son completely catatonic, still sat on the kitchen floor clutching your body long after you’ve gone cold and stiff, long after the blood has dried crusted and brown on the surrounding surfaces.

And months later, Stefan watches the report on the television in his cell – the gruesome story surrounding Bandersnatch and its coder, proved too controversial for Tuckersoft. They didn’t bother taking what Stefan had written and finishing it – and it turned out to be the last nail in the company’s coffin. Tuckersoft declared bankruptcy, and closed its doors for good.

Stefan turned to make a carving into the wall. Four lines, all connected; the branching pathways.


End file.
